


I'll crawl home to her

by LittleAprilFlowers



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Female Apprentice (The Arcana), Frankenstein AU kinda sorta read it and you'll see I guess?, Gift Exchange, Named Apprentice (The Arcana), Reanimation, a lot of the early dialogue is canon with some bits added for fun, also yes the title is a Hozier lyric cus he's my go-to for Arcana things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleAprilFlowers/pseuds/LittleAprilFlowers
Summary: When Julian hangs and his life dangles by a thread, Marian finds him in the Hanged Man's realm. With this visit the truth comes into focus - Death came not only for the infamous doctor.Written as part of an exchange with the wonderful Cicadako who I have long admired. Her art has inspired me countless times, and is a huge part of why I love being in The Arcana fandom. Marian is a beautiful character and it's been a lot of fun fleshing her out! Enjoy!
Relationships: Apprentice/Julian Devorak, Marian Wen/Julian Devorak, implied unrequited love from Asra too
Kudos: 15





	I'll crawl home to her

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cicadako](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cicadako).



Dead trees encircle the lake like a silent audience of bark and knots. Everything is bathed in crimson - the water, the sky, the ground, the thick swirling fog, and the glow of the lamplight above Julian as he kneels before the Hanged Man. Marian finds herself rooted to the spot as if the branches of those trees which had brought her here had not released her at all, and the Hanged Man gives her a knowing look. She desperately wants to rush forward to Julian’s side, her heart clutched by breathless relief as the memory of his limp form at the end of a rope remains painfully clear in her mind. But she cannot move nor try to call out to him no matter how determinedly she pushes forward against the invisible barrier that restrains her.

With an eye fixed on Marian to offer a wink in her direction, the Hanged Man breaks the thick silence hanging over the grove, looking at her but speaking to the man knelt at his taloned feet. “Your memories should be returning now.”

Slowly and unsteadily, Julian rises from the ground to stand. His hand lifts to brush at his throat; the glowing mark there remains, sustaining him, a tenuous link between the realms of magic and reality as his life hangs in the balance.

“What… the  _ hell? _ ” he groans, his voice thick with disdain. “I… This is… impossible. This can’t be.”

“Not only is it possible, it’s the truth.” the Hanged Man replies patiently. He appears to be unsurprised by Julian’s reaction.

Julian is silent for a moment. He casts his gaze around them, taking in the strange but unaltered surroundings of thorns and fog which he had explored with Marian what was only a day ago in their world. His eyes pass over her like they would anything unremarkable. The urge to scream at him rises in her throat, a wordless cry lodged in her oesophagus, and her heart thrums with panic at his continued ignorance of her.

“All this time, I thought I’d murdered the Count. I thought I was coming back to face justice. Even when I learned the truth, when I discovered my innocence, I knew that wasn’t the whole story.”

The Hanged Man nods, arms still crossed over a feathery body bound in red rope. “You remembered some of what happened that night, but you were still missing a piece. The answer to a vital question - why were you going to Lucio’s room?”

The raven’s words cause Julian’s face to harden, his pale skin lined with unhindered hatred for his alleged victim. His silver eye - the other still concealed beneath a patch - glints with steely realisation, which then fades to confusion. “To kill him. And the only reason I didn’t is because... I didn’t get there in time? But why? Why would I want to kill him in the first place? I know there are reasons beyond counting that  _ anyone  _ might want to kill Lucio, but-- oh _. _ ”

“Ah. There it is.” the Hanged Man huffs.

Staring at his hands again, Julian’s eye blinks owlishly. He seems horrified by the sight of his own fingers and palms, concealed as they are in ebony leather. His arms tremble, and his mouth hangs slightly open in shock at the resurgence of lost memories suddenly filling his head like a chaotic tempest of recollection, crashing against his consciousness like the tide.

“He was the source of the plague.” Julian whispers, his voice strangely amplified in the dusk of the clearing, “All those years, all those people dying, and it was because of him?”

“Lucio’s very existence was tied to the plague. Wherever he went, it inevitably followed.” the Hanged Man confirms calmly.

“And killing him would have stopped it. That’s what you told me three years ago. That’s the cure.” Julian says.

Yet the plague has returned years after Lucio’s demise; Marian recalls the skittering red beetles in the pit of the dungeons below the palace, and the bright eyes of the murderous Valdemar regarding them with inhuman delight. Her frustration starts to ebb into confusion, the agony of being invisible now giving way to an examination of what she thinks she knows about her investigation. Lucio is dead, so how does the plague continue in his absence?

Julian’s bitter laughter breaks her from such deliberation. “When I said he was a plague on the city, I didn’t realise I was being so literal. But that means if the plague is coming back…”

_ So is Lucio,  _ Marian realises, moments before he speaks the words. She had seen with her own eyes the shade which haunts the hallways of the palace. Could it be that the horned spirit she had witnessed in the Count’s old wing was a remnant of the man himself, twisted unrecognisably in death by his own torment?

The Hanged Man ruffles his feathers in a shrug, urging the conversation onwards. “You have a plan to return to life, don’t you?”

Once again Julian’s hand drifts to the glow of the golden sigil at his throat, and his expression becomes distant. Marian is briefly grateful that there are no visible marks on his skin from the noose which had caught there. The light pulses faintly at his touch and a flash of recognition passes across Julian’s face.

“This mark. It’s from you.” he says, his face snapping up to the Arcana before him. “I made a deal with you before. Memories I didn’t want in exchange for the power to heal.”

“But we needed a test for your power. You wanted to be sure it would work.” the Hanged Man says, his previously relaxed tone now hardened. “And I wanted to be sure you were worthy of it.”

“Marian.” Julian murmurs, the name catching in his throat so tightly that it seems as if he chokes on it, like one might do upon a final breath. A single tear shines on his face, dripping down to the point of his chin. “I wasn’t there for her. I abandoned her.”

Icy tendrils of dread creep through Marian’s chest and tangle around her heart like thorny vines. He must mean choosing to hang over running from judgement, her mind insists, but the truth presses more firmly into her mind. The way Julian speaks of her with such certainty and sorrow makes it sound like the distant past. An ache starts to build in her temples, roiling like a storm cloud, concealing her memories in a thunderous shroud.

“Ruro-Mei. You’re regaining those memories too.” the Hanged Man says, his tone encouraging. He glances at Marian, her mounting perturbation evident on her face as she continues to lean against the forces keeping her from the pool of light. They had been strangers on that fateful night in the shop, when Nadia came asking for help to find him before he had appeared from the shadows in person moments later.

_ Hadn’t we? _

“When I met her, I thought she seemed familiar. Three years ago, she was an apprentice in my clinic. A capable one at that, so gentle and patient and willing to learn.” Julian speaks his thoughts aloud, and even though his face is wrought with anguish, he smiles.

Marian feels her head start to swim. The painful stab of a headache continues to grip her mind, and she realises it is the same that rears up whenever she tries to recall a time before Asra and the shop. She knows what Julian is saying is true, but just thinking about it inspires fresh pain.

Julian’s smile drops. More tears glisten at the corner of his eye. “But when she needed me the most, I wasn’t there. I was so wrapped up in finding a cure at the palace, I didn’t even know she was sick. I didn’t know until it was too late that… Oh, Marian. She’d died.”

The air in Marian’s lungs dissolves to nothing. It takes every ounce of strength she has to stand. She glances down and stares at the white lines forming a sunburst on her chest, those scars that Asra would never speak of should she ever ask of their origin. Her whole body tremors, her soul itself trying to reject such a terrifying possibility as the one posed to her. Yet in her heart she knows it is the truth.

_ I died of the plague. _

***

Julian finds himself to be surprised by how light the corpse is to carry. It took little convincing at all for the ferryman to relinquish one body of many from his barge - Julian had hidden the telltale crimson of his eyes behind a beaked white mask, and the cut of his coat had identified him with more authority than the boat’s pilot chose to question. Perhaps the man might have wondered why this particular victim was spared from incineration on the Lazaret out in the bay, or perhaps he cast any such thoughts from his mind, remembering that one must never dwell on dead things lest they wish ill on themselves.

Julian doesn’t care much for superstition like that. It was far too late for such things now.

The body is smaller and more dainty than his own, draped bridal style over his arms and dressed in rags that had deteriorated so rapidly that they barely conceal its ash grey skin. It weighs less than he might have expected her to have—  _ It.  _ Not a person, he reminds himself, not anymore. Or at least not yet. It is a complicated business, and the correct language to use would have to be considered a different time.

If he succeeds at all.

A more optimistic man from his past might have been disappointed by how callously he regards his former apprentice. Valdemar’s inevitable influence on him, perhaps, or the surging dread that comes with each ache and pain of the deadly illness coursing through his veins as he hurries along the cobblestones. Not a soul passes him so late at night; all doors have long since been bolted shut, lights extinguished and shutters drawn, to keep the dying inside or out depending on what part of the city you were in. Here in the south end of Vesuvia it is the former, a futile attempt to prevent the spread of the Red Plague. Julian hopes that Asra has been careful on his journey to the clinic. The last thing they need is for him to fall ill when they finally have some hope of a solution to the blight which has befallen the city.

The raven-headed man from his dreams had offered Julian a cure for the plague, and an ability to heal injuries and illnesses that no ordinary person might wield on their own. In exchange, the Major Arcana agreed to take his memories of his guilt and past mistakes. It seemed like a simple bargain at the time, albeit an extraordinary one. Julian’s own negligence had left Marian alone in the clinic while he left for the palace - at Lucio’s personal invitation, no less - and it was because of him that she is dead. The least he can do is try to right a wrong of his own doing, to test what he was now capable of.

And then he would forget. She would be safer without him around. Asra needs her, and he could take care of her far better than Julian might have hoped to. He is the kind of man he had so feared he might become, and is not fit nor worthy of her guardianship now.

Fear of death inspires such desperation in people. He can still remember the scuttling legs down his throat as Lucio had pinned him and forced him to swallow. He recalls being shocked by how strong the ailing Count was even while at death’s door, how he had not relented an inch on his grip even as Julian had flailed and kicked in a vain attempt with everything he had to fight him off. No amount of vomiting would save him - he knew the beetle’s purpose. 

“That should incentivise you to work a little harder now, don’t you think?” Lucio sneered at him whilst Julian had desperately tried to breathe, laid back on the bed he had pounced from. He wore that characteristic wicked gleam in his eye which was as bright as the day Julian was cursed with their first meeting. “Tick tock, Jules.”

And so, upon fleeing the dungeons he was trapped in - with help from a friend of Asra, a silent hulking fellow who spoke not a word to Julian on his escape - he had returned to the clinic to lay the final piece of the puzzle. His clinic had clearly been abandoned since Marian died, the other doctors losing heart for the cause at her untimely demise. The door is ajar slightly and the warm promising glow of fire inside draws Julian to it like a moth to flame. Every joint in his body groans from exhaustion, but the night is far from over, and it was likely they would have to work through to the dawn.

Asra startles as the imposing sight of Julian’s laden form enters the still somewhat gloomy space from the inky night beyond. His eyes immediately dart from the haunting white mask obscuring Julian’s face to the small body in his arms. A dark shadow of anger passes over his countenance, his indigo irises glinting with emotion as he rises from where he was crouched at the hearth and brushes himself off.

“You could have at least covered her.” he mutters, drawing close and taking some of the weight to ease the corpse onto the operating table central to the room. The descent between the two men to the table is reverent, like the setting of an artefact for a ritual, just as this inevitably was. The floor around it is stained in some places; the report from the others who worked here had detailed unflinchingly the drastic drop in the condition of Marian’s health in her final days. Some of the blood spilled most recently would be hers.

Julian glides from the operating table to the source of light - a roaring fire in the corner of the room, and over it a large pot that is boiling the mixture he hopes will replicate the blood and other fluids they need. The surface of the brew shimmers, iridescent like oil on water, and beneath it is almost pitch black. In it Asra had been instructed to add a variety of magical ingredients, some of which he was forced to travel quite a ways to retrieve. This is not a task taken lightly, and Julian’s instructions from the Hanged Man were very specific.

Asra stands beside the body and gingerly takes one frail hand in his. Were it not for the discolouration of her skin Marian might seem peaceful, lost in sleep. She is cold and firm to touch, but they had been fortunate with a dry and cooler spell in the weather which had somewhat halted the onset of decomposition. If the process had advanced any more then their chances would be even slimmer, and already they feel infinitesimal. Though there is still a constant burn of fury in his heart Asra finds that the sight of her soothes him and extinguishes a little of the flames, even if the sorrow with it also simultaneously stokes the fire. He blames Julian, he blames Lucio, he blames himself… The only one not at fault is the dead woman laid out on the slab, a gut-wrenching reminder of their failures and selfishness.

She ought to have left the city with him instead of fighting it, instead of insisting she had to stay and help. They would be far from here and safe from the chaos of Vesuvia. But maybe it would have caught up to them eventually. After tonight, Asra hopes he won’t ever have to worry about what might have been ever again. Marian will live. He will protect her as best he can and ensure he never lets her down.

“Are you ready?” Julian’s voice snaps Asra from his silent reverie. The doctor sees the sadness in the magician’s eyes and is glad he has the plague doctor’s mask to conceal his own face; clammy and paler than usual, riddled with the agony of dying and the sharpness of the guilt in his gut. Asra lifts a hand to stubbornly wipe a fist in his eyes and then nods.

“What do you need me to do?” he asks, rising from where he was bent towards the cadaver. Julian notes that he does not release her hand until he absolutely has to. A pang of something unfamiliar leaps in his chest but he pushes it away, just as he had on the journey from the docks, knowing he could not let his emotions get the better of him if they were going to succeed. 

_ I’m so sorry, Marian,  _ he thinks, his heart betraying the rationality of his mind as his eyes linger on her lifeless face,  _ I let you down. _

“You’re confident you can provide me with the shock I’ll need?” Julian asks.

Asra nods firmly. “I’ll give it all I’ve got.”

“It has to be a precise amount. We will probably only get one chance for this.” Julian admits. The alternative to success is not an option, not when so much hangs in the balance.

He removes his gloves and rests his bare hands on the subject’s shoulder. There is nothing for him to heal - the gift from the Hanged Man remains stubbornly silent at his throat - and yet its powers will likely assist the process nonetheless. Pure conjecture, of course, but most of this would be. Reanimating the dead is not a procedure Julian has any experience in, and nor does any other doctor in the world, he suspects.

“Fetch me a needle, and the tubing.” he instructs Asra, “We’ll need to start feeding the fluid through the body before we do anything else, to ensure it is prepared and receptive for revival.”

Asra nods and does as is asked. His jaw clenches at the mention of the body. It is clear that everything he does is motivated by determination, Julian observes, in his movement and clipped conversation. This is not the same Asra he had grown close to during their time together researching a cure in the palace; the man he knew then had been flirtatious, charismatic, mysterious, and somewhat aloof. The death of his close friend has shut down much of who he is. All that remains is hardened conviction for the task at hand.

The gleaming pinpoint offered to Julian is sharp and clean.  _ At least the other doctors had the courtesy to maintain what they left before the clinic was abandoned _ , Julian thinks.

“Fetch the fluid.” he says, before leaning close, the needle hovering over the arm. This would require a steady and careful hand - any excessive damage done could be catastrophic. Julian swallows down the nerves and tries to fight through the cloud of exhaustion addling his mind.

Asra feeds the tube into the fluid from a bowl he holds aloft and delivers it into the tube as instructed, ensuring there would be a constant flow. He nods to Julian, and on that signal the needle punctures the rigid flesh of their patient. Asra begins to pour more fluid into the receptacle he holds as it floods into the corpse’s veins. The branching network of vessels under the grey skin spread outwards, akin to the blemish of cracks in porcelain. At the same time the colour of the skin changes almost immediately; its deathly complexion lifts to something rosier and more lifelike.

_ It’s working.  _ Julian realises, and allows himself to feel the disbelief.  _ Marian, I can give you a second start. Come back to us. _

Once again Julian determinedly rests his hand upon her arm, wrapping his long fingers around a dainty wrist. No pulse - a vague hope deflected that this might be easy. But the skin is warmer than it had been moments before. Whatever concoction the Hanged Man has instructed them to make, it  _ is _ working.

“Keep filling it.” Julian murmurs to Asra, and it is now that the mark at his throat begins to glow. He feels the warmth flooding from it, from the hollow between his collarbones down through his shoulders and into his arms, to the palms of his hands where his skin meets hers. At this moment he is nothing but a conduit for this strange combination of science and magic. Julian feels the poison in his blood flow thicker with each beat of his stuttering heart, drawing the deadly illness from Marian’s motionless form into his own. Every inch of him begs to release her and move away, but he cannot wrench his grip from her. He cannot stop when they are so close.

The hand by his side is lifted to move to her face. He cradles her cheek for just barely a second, remembering the first time he saw that lovely face smile up at him. Too young and beautiful to die, he had thought at the time. Such a memory stirs his courage and he gingerly lifts the lid of her eye. Pure white sclera. Not a trace of the sickening red which would have consumed it in the later stages of the plague.

“Now, Asra.” Julian says, not releasing her arm. He senses Asra setting down the bowl of revival fluid behind him, and then move to the other side of the operating table and roll up his sleeves. He sees two brown hands settle over Marian’s chest, directly over her heart. He sees the sparks gather around Asra’s fingers, the crackle of electricity flowing through the aura he channels. Asra hesitates and looks up at Julian, who nods, still not drawing his touch away.

The light is blinding, the pain even more so. Julian feels himself blasted backwards and knows when he wakes he will be a wanted man. But he will live, for now. And so will she.

***

She opens her eyes to warm light and the faint scent of something earthy. A presence near her places a hand on her arm, and it takes most of the energy she has to turn her head. Beside her is a person that she feels like she knows; a cloudy head of white, and kind orchid eyes that shine in the semi-darkness.

“Meimei.” they say softly, their face flooded with relief. “You’re awake.”

_ Is that my name? _

“Don’t move now. Rest. Everything’s going to be fine.”

She could not offer a name in return, and her throat is too dry to speak even if she wanted to. Instead she closes her eyes and allows the familiar darkness to embrace her.

***

The following years are tough. Asra nurses Marian every day, a devout vigil to her every need. The lightning scars across her torso raise questions which nearly force her into unconsciousness every time she dares ask as to their origin; eventually she seems to abandon the line of inquiry and simply accepts them as a part of her. As before, she is hesitant to speak. Where it used to be because of an accent that made communication difficult, now it is due to damage to her vocal chords, another mystery Asra must keep from her. She remembers nothing from the time before she awoke in the shop. He intends to keep it that way. She does not remember the plague, or the clinic, or most important of all, her untimely death. All she knows of the man who saved her is the lingering wanted posters almost unrecognisable from exposure to the elements; the infamous Julian Devorak, the Doctor of Death, with his shock of auburn curls and villainous sneer.

***

Three years pass. In time Asra leaves Marian to her own devices, confident she is well enough to care for herself in his absence. He could not have anticipated that the countess herself would come to the shop in the dead of night, asking for help in a murder investigation long thought solved but unfinished. Nor could he have predicted even with his abilities in foresight that the doctor himself would sneak in afterwards and bring the past violently into the present without warning.

***

_ I died of the plague. And Julian… He brought me back. _

“I know what I want to do.” Julian’s voice cuts through the howling silence. Marian lifts her head; she had been so lost in her own thoughts that she missed the continued conversation between him and the Hanged Man. The mark still glows at his throat, the gift which had saved her and - she hopes - could save him too.

“Are you sure?” the Hanged Man asks passively, “You can take as long as you want.”

Julian smiles. It’s the most beautiful thing Marian has ever seen. Despite the overwhelming truth she has been exposed to, one thing stands bright and clear amongst it all. She will always be indebted to him, and he cared about her long before that night in the shop, even if he didn’t know it himself at the time.

“I don’t need more time. I’ve made up my mind.” he insists. “I’m ready to go back to her.”


End file.
